Redamancy
by ehcorns
Summary: Glory likes to run away from her problems. It works. Until Glory's problems start running after her.
1. Part 1

It all started when Glory had the sudden urge to lick Scott McCall.

He was awfully close, in the row ahead of hers, and he smelt really, _really_ good. Like pine trees and mint gum. It was a jarring thought that made her snap the tip of her pencil. And when he stretched, tilting his head left and right, Glory almost whimpered; she wanted to bury her head into the crook of his neck and breathe in all the little things he smelt of and stay there for hours.

She tried to listen to the teacher's review of syntax and tone and two other important devices that she couldn't remember. She even tried to copy Cam's notes so she could avoid looking anywhere near Scott McCall. Glory was squirming so much that Cam elbowed her with a harshly whispered, " _Knock it off!_ ".

Glory knew she was in the doghouse when the boy smelling stupidly of pine trees and mint tensed his shoulders for briefest of seconds and his jaw stopped working the piece of gum in his mouth.

"Sorry," she told Cam, heart beating absurdly fast and blood pounding in her ears. She couldn't concentrate.

This urge wasn't like the others. It was stronger. Too strong. Made her feel out of control. Glory scooted closer to Cam and wound her legs between his. She heard him let out a weary sigh.

She left English with a lip gnawed raw and bloody, and no clue about the difference between tone and voice. But she definitely knew how many freckles were on Cam's arm (twelve) and that Scott McCall thought she was a complete and utter nutcase—if the weirded-out glances had told her anything.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" asked Cam as he wrenched open his locker. The smell of stale gym clothes, cigarette smoke, and Febreeze wafted out. She watched him swap his textbooks for a soda and a brown paper bag.

Glory tugged at her braid, grimacing. "No clue—I just really kind of had a sudden need to, uh, lick him? Scott McCall. Yeah. Wanted to lick him."

Cam sent her an incredulous look and she quickly stumbled to correct herself.

"Not in a, uh, sexual way. More like a…Well, I'm not really sure what kind of way." Her face lit up as she found the right words. "Like it is with you," she told him.

"Like it is with me…" Cam repeated slowly. "You have the urge to lick me?"

Glory shrugged. "Only sometimes." She received a nasty glare.

"Look," she said, "it's not like I intend to jump him in a broom closet." Now the thought was in her head. And it sounded like a really good idea.

Cam saw the look on Glory's face and he thrust the paper bag at her. "Don't even think about it."

She distracted herself by rummaging through the baggie as they sauntered off to the cafeteria. Two PB&J sandwiches, some peaches, and a small carton of apple juice. There was even a sticky note wishing Cam a great day with lots of x's and o's.

"My mom made it," said Cam. "Don't get any ideas."

Glory pictured him in a " _Kiss the Chef_ " apron, cutting the crusts off the bread and writing nice little things on sticky notes. She wished her mother would write her notes. _Especially_ ones with x's and o's.

"Okay."

It was only once they were squished at the end of a table in the cafeteria and with their backs to half the lacrosse team did Glory start to panic. She felt very hot, as if the a/c had broken—which it hadn't. She couldn't think; her head was full of cotton balls and the smells of pine trees and mint gum.

She watched Cam finish his silly caricature of their English teacher as they munched on Mrs. Rocha's PB&J sandwiches. His drawing wasn't very good, but she didn't tell him that. He was better at drawing things rather than people.

"Want to skip the rest of the day?" Cam asked. Glory knew he was itching for a smoke.

She almost declined, but then the smell of pine and mint magnified tenfold as she remembered how close he was. A roar of laughter rose up from the lacrosse players' table. Even though they weren't, she felt like they were laughing at her.

"Yes, please," she said through clenched teeth. Scott McCall's laugh stood out vividly.

Cam raised an eyebrow. Usually, Glory made sure to drag her feet and whine about missing important lessons and reviews. She'd have to return for yearbook though. Scott wasn't in yearbook. He had lacrosse on the other side of the school _and_ practice lasted for hours more than yearbook.

"Is it really that bad?"

Nodding furiously, Glory leaned close to him and whispered, "Can't stand it. He smells so good." _Invigorating_. "Pine trees, Cam. And he's chewing gum—mint. Nngh." She buried her head into her arms, only lifting it when she heard pencil scratching quickly on paper.

Cam slid the empty paper baggie toward her. " _I think they can hear you_ ," it said and Glory's stomach dropped. She didn't bother pondering how they could hear her and who "they" included. She stood up, clutching her juice box, and practically bolted out of the cafeteria.

* * *

"Do you have a thing for Scott?"

Glory wheezed. The reedy, pale boy had popped out of nowhere, without a care for just how close he was to her. She could almost count the freckles on his nose. His breath smelt like a familiar mint.

"—Because I always see you with that scruffy-looking guy—what's with the leather pants, anyway?—and you guys seem awfully close," the boy continued in one breath. She barely caught half of it.

"Uh…who're you?" she asked, wondering at the same time if she could outrun him. He had gangly limbs that could make for a fast sprint.

The boy frowned. "Stiles. Stilinski." Glory squinted. Stiles groaned. "C'mon, we've been in the same schools since, like, kindergarten."

"Oh. Right." She didn't remember him. It didn't matter.

He looked at her expectantly. "So? Do you?" he asked.

"Do I what?"

Stiles rubbed his temples and grumbled to himself. "Like him! _Romantically_ ," he exclaimed, tossing his hands up.

"…No, not really," she told him sincerely. She couldn't see herself dating Scott McCall. Not really. "But he does smell nice," she added as an afterthought.

Stiles did not seem very satisfied, opening his mouth to say more, but a shadow loomed over the both of them and a voice asked, "is there a problem?"

Stiles turned pale and dithered a bit before saying a quick, "Nope-not at all," and high-tailing it in the other direction.

Glory turned to Cam. He had dark circles under bloodshot eyes and was looking fairly murderous.

"You look awful," she said.

"It's your fault."

She had the decency to feel guilty. She cast him a sheepish look. "Sorry."

Cam shrugged. He grabbed a few beat-up textbooks. "My mom says you've gotta stop coming over so late," he said without a glance at Glory. "You know, exams and all."

That bothered Glory. Cam _never_ cared about school. "Fine. Whatever." It wasn't fine. She changed the subject anyway. "I want ice-cream. Let's get some after school."

"Can't," said Cam as he fussed with his hair using Glory's compact mirror. "Meeting the guys."

"Again? I'll bet your mother doesn't mind them staying late," Glory snarked. She felt a little hurt. It felt like he was pushing her away—too many excuses.

Cam didn't catch her irritation. "She thinks I'm studying with you."

"Fine. I'll be in the library at lunch if you need me. _Don't_."

Cam heaved a weary sigh. "Glory—"

She bristled like a cat. "Don't 'Glory' me, Cam. See you in English." Glory huffed. Clutching her textbooks, she barrelled through the crowded halls. She didn't know why she was friends with him. He had no tact and he only cared about hanging out with his cigarette-smoking, non-law-abiding, school-hating friends. But she didn't have anyone else who would let her snuggle them at three in the morning without expecting anything in return, and no one else would stick up for her like he did, even if he blew her off a lot.

When the last bell of the day rang, Glory grabbed her camera from the yearbook room and trudged to the bleachers on the practice fields. If there was one place Cam didn't go, it was the fields. He hated sports. Glory didn't like them much because she had terrible coordination despite years of ballet when she was a kid.

A shrill whistle pierced her ears and much to her dismay she saw Uncle Bobby on the field, squawking insults at the lacrosse players. She dawdled for a moment and debated jumping off the back of the bleachers.

Another whistle blow. "Glory! Get over here—Greenburg! Stop touching yourself on my field!"

"Coach, I was only scratching—"

 _Skree_. "Don't care." _Skree_. "Glory, front and center!"

With a long-suffering sigh, Glory dragged herself off the bleachers, making each step long and obnoxiously loud.

"Afternoon, Sunshine," Uncle Bobby said once Glory made it to his side. "Come to grace us little people with your presence?"

She held up her camera. "Yearbook. Lacrosse has a two-page spread this year."

"Oh, wow. A whole two-pages," he scoffed. "How generous."

"The soccer team didn't make it to the championships this year. So lacrosse gets theirs—" She faltered. Pine trees and mint gum.

 _Skree_. "McCall! Get your ass in the nets!"

"I have to go," Glory said abruptly. She wracked her brain for an excuse as she struggled to breathe properly.

"You're not still hanging out with that boy, are you?" asked Uncle Bobby, eyes not moving from the players.

Glory cast him a sidelong glance. "Yeah, what of it?"

He frowned. "Don't like him. Who wears leather pants in ninety-degree weather?" _Skree!_ "Greenburg, for the love of God, save it for your bedroom!"

Glory took her chance to slip away, ears ringing from Uncle Bobby's obnoxious whistle. Well, more like stumble a bit and look like she was leaping over hurdles. Anything to get away from Scott McCall.

Within the week, it had spread to others, and Glory knew she was royally screwed if she didn't do something about it.

Jackson Whittemore was the second. He smelt of sandalwood and cinnamon and a musky, earthy scent that sent her absolutely reeling. Then it was Erica, whose citrus hair-wash made Glory dizzy, and then Boyd and Isaac and even Lydia Martin.

By then, she really couldn't pass it off as whacked out hormones.

And with every day, Cam looked more and more tired and miserable. Glory knew he had a hard time getting enough sleep when she woke him up in the middle of the night to crawl into his bed, but she needed to hug and touch and nuzzle someone or else she would go crazy.

"I'm sorry," she told him, but he wouldn't hear it. He was starting to ignore her.

One night, she knocked on his window. He never came to unlock it.

Another week passed and Glory was a mess. She could barely sleep, and yet she was exhausted. She couldn't concentrate; her mind was riddled with thoughts of Lydia's perfume and pine trees and Isaac's body-wash.

Cam looked better. Brighter. He was dating Penny Kimble.

Her mother noticed. And that terrified Glory.

"Honey," Mother said as Glory was leaving for school. "Are you all right? You don't look well."

Glory rubbed her eyes. They were slightly puffy from crying at some point in the night. "M'fine. Just stressed about exams, mom."

Mother didn't look convinced. "Remember, we have the benefit for the children's hospital tonight at seven. Your father will meet us there after he finishes work."

Glory nodded. That gave her something to think about. "Okay, I'm off. Love you."

Her mother turned to the sink. "Have a good day at school. Work hard."

There was a tiny pin that pricked Glory's heart. She ignored it.

Cam sat with Penny Kimble in English. Glory took up a seat at the back of class and dozed off until the bell rang. As she walked out, Mr. Anderson stopped her.

"If I catch you sleeping in my class again, it'll be detention for you," he admonished, and suddenly Glory realized she couldn't go on like she was. She needed to do something.

"Sorry, Mr. Anderson. Won't happen again. Ever." And it didn't.

* * *

Glory knew it was wrong. She knew it was a terrible idea.

The yearbook meeting had ended rather late, and Glory stayed even later to work on the lacrosse team's spread. Several of the photos were ruined with some sort of glare—a bright light—and she had even less of a selection to pick from. Terry had the same problem.

Her idea was simple. Get one of _them_ alone and stop trying to stifle the urge. Oh, it was terrible. But she'd never, ever fallen asleep in class before. And her mother knew something was up. Glory knew she couldn't endure another one of her mother's episodes. Not after the last time. She still had small scars on her feet from where the broken pieces of glass had sliced her feet.

She left the clubroom. Almost immediately, she was overwhelmed by a medley of scents-like several had converged into one person. Her eyes found a skinny, gawky body. _Stiles_. She hadn't realized it before.

He was alone. Her heart beat fast and she felt lightheaded. She staggered and hit the lockers. The metal felt cool against her cheek; she tried to calm her breathing, but the scents were suddenly so close.

"Hey. Glory." A hand on her shoulder. It was warm and she was so starved for comfort, Glory found herself leaning towards him. "You okay?" She wasn't. Something snapped. It was Glory's self-control.

In seconds, she had him up against the lockers, hands around his wrists. He let out a soft, "Oof" as his shoulder-blade hit a lock. "Oh, o-okay, you just did that," he stuttered.

Glory breathed deeply, savouring all the scents. Scott's was the most prominent, and yet an unfamiliar one almost overpowered it.

"Are you _sniffing_ me?" His voice was incredulous, eyes wide with confusion.

"You smell like _them_." She buried her head into his chest. He was wearing a worn, red hoodie. She liked it.

"Oh my god—but you're not…Scott said you weren't-"

She ignored his ramblings in favour of nuzzling the crook of his neck. His muscles tensed. Glory felt awake. She hummed, deep in her throat. She did what she'd been longing to do with the rest of them. Her tongue snaked out and flicked just behind his ear. He tasted kind of salty.

Stiles shivered, and a strangled sort of groan escaped his mouth. The sound was musical to Glory, and she was practically purring. Loosening her grip on his wrists, she moved her hands to grasp at his sweater, trying to get as close to him as possible.

"You smell like them," she whispered again. Licked his neck. Nibbled at his earlobe.

"Who?" Stiles panted, his voice strained.

" _Them_ ," Glory whined. "Doesn't matter. Mine now." Glory didn't know what she meant.

A locker slammed and echoed through the halls.

Glory jolted. Feeling like she'd been plunged in ice-cold water, she lurched away from Stiles and was on the opposite side of the hall in a split second.

"I'm sorry," she blurted. "I don't know why—so sorry," she said as she watched Stiles catch his breath. He gingerly touched his neck, looked at his hand, then at Glory.

She blushed a violent red, and bit her fist. "Sorry," she choked out before sprinting away.

As she ran, Glory realized two things.

One. She felt better than she had in months.

And two. She was late for the benefit.

* * *

Her mother didn't say much when Glory sidled into the benefit forty minutes late, besides sending her a withering glare which changed into a pleasant smile the next instant.

"Sheriff Stilinski—it's wonderful to see you. Thank you for coming." Mrs. Finstock extended her hand and shook the Sheriff's. Glory wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

Sheriff _Stilinski_ —father to Stiles Stilinski—nodded amiably. "Glad to make it." He turned to Glory.

"Sheriff, this is my daughter, Glory," said Mrs. Finstock. She never mentioned that Glory was the youngest anymore. Her mother didn't like to talk about Trudy.

"Hi." Glory offered her hand and the Sheriff took it.

"I remember you," said Sheriff Stilinski. "You go to school with my son." Stiles. The son she had molested in the school hall barely an hour ago. _Oh dear_.

"I do."

Mrs. Finstock and Sheriff Stilinski talked some more and Glory half-listened. The benefit was a bore: the food tasted gross, all anyone did was make small talk for three long hours (with intermittent speeches), and her mother kept Glory on a tight leash during every one. Her dad was somewhere off by the buffet table. The hall was filled with muted waves of chatter and the clinking of champagne glasses and the lingering smell of the dinner Glory had missed.

Glory could still taste Stiles on her tongue. She could still smell him and the other scents that had clung to his clothing and skin.

"—Glory, Glory, Natalie asked you a question."

Glory blinked and looked at her mother. "What?"

Mrs. Martin was standing before them, and both older women were staring expectantly at Glory.

Mrs. Martin smiled politely. "I was wondering what your plans were for after high school," she said.

Glory blinked again, waiting for her brain to catch up. "Um… Probably university," she offered. "I don't really know what I want to do."

"Not many do at your age," said Mrs. Martin. "You will figure it out."

Glory could only nod. She hadn't given it much thought, and now the question was digging away at her mind. What did she want to do with her life? What should she major in? Where would she go to school? She thought of her sister Trudy. Trudy did the smart thing and got far away from Beacon Hills as fast as possible.

But Glory had more pressing matters. Like having just mauled the sheriff's son and wanting to do the same thing to half a dozen other students.

 _Oh god._

Had she left a hickey on him?

* * *

She had.

Come Friday morning, Stiles was sporting two purple blemishes on the side of his neck. He wore a plaid, collared shirt, that did practically nothing to cover up the bruises. She hadn't even realized she'd been that… _rough_ with him. What was wrong with her?

They were in the same chemistry class and every few minutes, he would glance over his shoulder, and every time Glory would get hot and flustered and knock over a vial or pour too much solution into the beaker. It was even worse when Scott sauntered into class after a dentist appointment and Glory almost fainted.

"Glory, geez," said her lab partner, Terry. "Do you need to see the nurse?"

"Nope!" Glory managed to wheeze out. "M'fine." She coughed. "Wonderful."

Terry eyed her for a moment, then shrugged. "Did you see Stilinski? _Damn_. Looks like he got some action last night," she laughed.

Glory died a bit on the inside. "Totally," she squeaked. Terry didn't seem to noticed Glory turn several different shades of red and pink.

"Penny said she saw some blonde _all_ over him yesterday after school," Terry continued.

Glory was blonde. She hoped Terry wouldn't put two and two together.

"Penny Kimble?" Glory asked, voice wavering a bit.

"Yeah, talked to her in Math. Didn't see much apparently. She was running late for a guidance appointment."

"Oh."

Terry jotted down something in her workbook and Glory copied it.

Later, as Glory was heading to pick up a few pages from yearbook to get the principal's approval, she was ambushed by two brawny figures and the next thing she knew, Glory was in the boy's locker room with Scott and Jackson. She gulped. Her hand twitched, and she knew that they saw it. She sat on her hands on a bench.

"What do you want?" she whined. She was trying very hard not to jump either of them, despite how much she really wanted to do the same thing to them that she had done with Stiles.

"What did you do to Stiles and _why_?" Scott asked.

Glory found herself getting annoyed. "It's not like I meant to do it! He just-he just smelt like you and the others." She closed her eyes and inhaled. She must have looked off her rocker. And out. "— _So good_."

Jackson crossed his arms. "Scratch her, see what happens," he told Scott.

Glory's eyes flew open. "Scratch me?" she repeated.

Scott gritted his teeth. "We're not scratching her," he hissed.

"Definitely not," Glory agreed. Jackson shot her a look.

Scott turned to her and knelt down beside the bench. "Glory, right?" She nodded numbly. He continued. "Look, I'm real sorry about this. It's-well, Stiles is my best friend, and he tells me everything, including what you did to him. Last night."

Jackson scoffed. "It's kind of hard to hide it," he said. "Like a leech attacked his throat."

Glory winced.

Scott rolled his eyes at Jackson. "Not helping." He spoke to Glory again. "We just want to know what's going on and if there's anything we can do to help." He seemed sincere enough as Glory searched his eyes—they were warm and kind and not at all like Cam's. She wanted to confide in him, tell him everything. Everything about her mother's episodes and her sister's estrangement and Glory's own weird urges.

She tried to bolt. Jackson caught her easily and firmly pushed her back onto the bench.

All thoughts of escape had gone out the window as soon as he had touched her, and she practically melted in his hands. They were calloused and strong and hot. She felt dizzy. There was a buzzing in her ears and muffled talking.

Someone was snapping their fingers in front of her face. She jerked back and glared at them, and then to their owner, Jackson. " _What?_ " she growled. He lifted an eyebrow. "I have to be somewhere," she wriggled. "Lemme go."

Scott glanced at Jackson. "Well, we can't keep her here," he said. Glory took that as a sign of freedom. She sprinted away, tripping over lacrosse sticks and duffel bags. She made it to the hall, puffing like the Big Bad Wolf, and didn't stop until she made it to the safety of the yearbook room.

* * *

A week went by and Glory felt no better or worse. A look in the mirror on Monday morning told her it was worse.

Her ears.

They were pointy.

She looked like an elf.

Oh, _hell_.

* * *

Glory hadn't worn pigtails since the third grade, when Colin Bradshaw would pull them so hard he'd make her cry. They did the trick in covering up her little problem—for now. She'd added a beanie and tugged her hood over her head for good measure.

"What's with the hat?" Terry asked in Chemistry. Glory had grown rather attached to Terry in the past couple weeks. Terry didn't seem to mind Glory's touchy-feely neediness nor her other strange antics.

"Bad hair day."

"Ah."

They worked on the assignment in silence.

"Want to get ice-cream after school?" Glory asked.

"Sure."

Glory planned to get the largest sundae she could get her hands on.

* * *

The diner was crowded, so Glory and Terry ordered two hot fudge sundaes to-go and walked across the street to a small park. Glory swirled her spoon into the chocolatey goodness while Terry talked about an art and design school in Chicago. Glory mentioned wanting to go to Florida.

"Florida's nice," said Terry. "They've got some good schools."

Glory nodded. "My sister lives there. I'd like to be closer to her."

"You'd be closer to me, too," Terry declared, digging into her sundae with zeal.

Glory smiled into her ice-cream sundae. "Definitely." Glory swung her feet back and forth.

Her mood quickly deflated when she caught sight of Penny Kimble and Cam strolling hand-in-hand at the other end of the park. Cam had a cigarette between his lips as he gave Penny a smirk. She was laughing at something he said. They seemed happy. Glory felt as if a hundred fingers were pinching her heart. She glanced away and down to her half-eaten sundae. It was a puddle of soup now.

"Let's go," she told Terry, standing up and speeding away from her ex-best friend and his cheery girlfriend.

"Huh?—but I'm not done…" Terry started to protest, until she noticed Glory's reason for wanting to leave. "Bad break-up, huh?" she said as they tossed their plastic bowls into the trash can and exited the park.

"We were never together," Glory mumbled.

"Oh." Terry was quiet for a moment before speaking up again. "Did you want to be?"

Glory stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk. Terry swiftly hooked her arm under Glory's, and they continued on. It was an odd question. Sure Glory had thought about it, but she had never felt much more than a strong fondness for him. The love she had for him, platonic maybe, was stifled underneath a blanket of hate and anger.

"No," she growled. "He dropped me."

Terry made a face. "I had a friend who did that freshman year. She got a girlfriend and suddenly everything was about _Sarah_." She tightened her grip on Glory's arm. "Anyway. We don't need them."

Glory hummed. "Definitely not."

* * *

"Woah, those are freaky," said Terry, reaching out a tentative hand to touch the pointy tip of Glory's ear.

"I know!" Glory wailed. It was a saturday and they were sitting in her bedroom (with the door open, of course—after Trudy, Mrs. Finstock wasn't taking any chances), pretending to study for the chemistry exam while Glory had a mini-meltdown.

Terry sat back on the bed and re-crossed her legs. "Well, I looked up your symptoms and figure it was, you know, puberty. But with those things, I don't think it's just teen hormones," she said, nodded her head toward Glory's ears.

Glory dropped her voice to a whisper. "No one can know, Terry. No one—not even my mother."

Terry held up two fingers. "Scout's honour."

Glory opened her workbook. She was feeling more tired than usual—a kind of persistent fatigue that didn't go away no matter how much she slept. Her parents were beginning to notice. She rubbed her eyes.

"Maybe you should talk to those guys—Whittemore and McCall. They seem to know something's up. Maybe they could help you," Terry suggested, doodling a howling Pomeranian in the margins of her chem textbook. It was quite good.

"Maybe," Glory echoed.

Suddenly, Terry stiffened. "Glory, your ears!" she exclaimed.

Glory ran to her dresser's mirror and lifted her hair into a ponytail. Before her eyes, the points shrunk away, revealing perfectly normal, rounded tips.

Just after her ears went back to normal, Glory's mother walked by the bedroom. Mrs. Finstock's face was expressionless. That frightened Glory the most.

* * *

Glory thought her luck had changed. It hadn't.

Her mother had another episode.

Terry had gone home hours ago, and Glory was trying to fall asleep, though her brain was running a marathon of thoughts. Her bedroom was unusually bright, her curtains not doing much to keep out the moon's light. She stared at the harsh neon figures of her alarm clock, hat still tucked over her ears just in case.

Mrs. Finstock was a boiling kettle—slowly building up until she was screaming and refusing to calm down until removed from the burner. Glory was the burner. This time was different, though. Glory usually left the house while her father reasoned with her mother, but she always came back. Back to a dark house with a light on in the office—her mother worn out and asleep, her father at his desk. He would wait until Glory came back. He would tell her things would get better, that she would understand one day, that life was full of struggles. Then he would rub his face and stubble, bid her goodnight and join his wife in bed. But this time Glory didn't come back.

There was shrieking and wailing and crying. _Get out!_ Dishes were thrown. _Get out!_ Glass was shattered. _Get out!_ And she listened.

She ran, her mother's words hurtling after her. _Get out! You're not my child!_

She left her keys and her phone. She couldn't call Terry. But Terry wouldn't understand anyway. Glory touched her tender throat. There would be bruises later in the shape of fingers. _What have you done with my baby—give her back! Give her back!_

The back of her head throbbed from where it had hit the wall. Cam would understand. But he had abandoned her. She hated him.

Glory could see the streets easily; the moon lit them up, casting a silvery sheen. The night was warm and arid. Small pieces of asphalt pricked at her bare feet. She could hear a few crickets chirping, and a lone dog barking; everything else was still. She wandered for what felt like hours—without a phone or watch to tell the time, it was hard to tell.

A car door slammed across the street and Glory jumped. Wondering who would be up so late, Glory took a few paces across the road and watched a dark-haired woman dressed in hospital scrubs pull a couple grocery bags out of the car's trunk. She grunted a little as she yanked down the trunk and hefted the bags up. The woman turned and visibly started, clutching her heart.

"Oh my gosh," she breathed. "Who's—Glory, Glory Finstock? What are you doing out at this hour?" She caught sight of Glory's state. "And what are you wearing? Where are your shoes!"

Glory figured that she looked a little hellish. She was dressed in nothing but a tank top and pyjama shorts, without shoes, and hair a wild, tangled mess.

"Ms. McCall?" Glory's voice came out croaky and scratched. Her neck was starting to feel sore and the places where her mother had dug in her nails stung worse than a bee's sting.

"Oh, honey. Come inside," Ms. McCall crooned, beckoning Glory forward with her free hand.

Feeling somewhat like a stray puppy, Glory warily followed Ms. McCall, dawdling several metres behind. Once inside, Ms. McCall urged her to take a seat at the kitchen table before hastily fetching a first aid kit. She set it down on the table and, with Glory's permission, began cleaning and bandaging the cuts and torn skin. Glory noticed that their home had lots of framed pictures of Scott and his mom. She counted six in the kitchen alone. She liked the one with a young Scott covered in flour on the kitchen counter the best.

Ms. McCall announced she was finished and gathered up the used antiseptic wipes and bandaid wrappers and threw them in the trash.

"Now that that's done," she declared, becoming much more serious. She took Glory's hands in her own with such tenderness and care that Glory wanted to break down and sob in Ms. McCall's arms. "Glory, I need you to tell me who did this to you-"

Glory instantly recoiled. "No, no—I-I can't—" she rasped.

Ms. McCall lifted her hands slowly, speaking in low, soothing tones. "Glory-Glory, it's okay. You can tell me. You're not going to get in trouble—"

Pine trees and mint gum. Glory whipped her head around at the sound of footsteps and saw a sleepy Scott round the corner, scratching his mussed hair and yawning widely. "Mom, what's going on?" He saw Glory. She knew he noticed the bruises on her throat and the bandaids and the red indents where nails hadn't broken skin. You're not my child! Get out, get out, get out!

"It's okay, Scott," his mother told him. "Go back to bed. You have school tomorrow."

Scott didn't budge. Glory stared at him. A brief thought of crawling into his bed and falling asleep in his arms flashed across her mind.

Ms. McCall sighed, " _Scott_ …"

Glory didn't remember what happened next, other than feeling suddenly, emotionally drained and exhausted and wanting desperately to curl up and take a nap. Her eyes fluttered shut and she slumped in her seat. _You're not my child. You're nothing to me._

They kept her in the hospital for two days for observation. Ms. McCall checked in on her every other hour, sometimes bringing her snacks and having short conversations about school and Glory's studies. Scott came by with Stiles who gave her a stuffed teddy bear that said ' _Get Well Soon_ ' in large loopy letters, making Glory grin for the first time in what felt like months.

Her mother was at Eichen House again, temporarily; Glory had overheard her father talking to the doctor when he thought she was asleep. Mr. Finstock made her talk to a couple police officers as they compiled a report on the incident. That was what he kept calling it: _the incident_ , as if it was nothing more than a small disturbance or temporary issue. That made Glory simmer with ire.

Uncle Bobby came to visit her, too. He didn't have his usual snark, appearing rather uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck and making a variety of disgruntled expressions. "You'll be staying with me for a while, until your mom gets better," he told her. Glory almost laughed. Her mother would never get better; there was nothing wrong with her. It was Glory that was the problem—she was the disease.

"Fine. Whatever," Glory relented. At least she wouldn't have to ride the bus anymore. Some part of her was glad to only be going to Uncle Bobby's and not some other state, country, or even an entire country away—like Jackson Whittemore. From what she'd heard, his parents were shipping him off to England as soon as the school year finished. Then again, maybe it would be better for her to leave as well. She could go live in Florida with her sister, Trudy.

Uncle Bobby opened his mouth to speak, and Glory thought he was going to say something meaningful. Instead, he settled on, "You should try out for track. Heard you're a fast runner."

"Only when I'm running away from my problems, Uncle Bobby," she replied dryly, only half-truthfully. She wasn't fast enough. Her problems always seemed to catch up, knock her down, and run her over again when she tried to stand back up.

Her uncle snorted, rolling his eyes. He told her he'd drop by again before she would be released, and left, muttering about melodramatic teenagers and their inability to respect authority figures.

"I think I'll go to Florida," she announced to no-one in particular.

"That's nice, dear," said the patient on the other side of the curtain.

* * *

 **Recently got into the Teen Wolf fandom over the summer. Thought this would be a fun little (and really weird) ficlet. Will probably be a two-shot or three-shot. Pardon any errors (whether spelling, grammar, or plot-related).  
**


	2. Part 2

Stiles had many problems. And Glory Finstock was one of them.

"I'm telling you," he was saying as he trotted after Scott on their way to lacrosse practice. "There's something off about her. Like super-off. Like supernatural-kind-of-off."

"Is this because she gave you a hickey?" asked Scott, trying to hide the humour in his voice.

Stiles let out a huff of indignation. "No! Oh my go-Scott, I am not just saying this because she gave me a stupid hickey, which—by the way—is still freakin' there, and now my dad thinks I'm going off to meet some mystery girl every time I leave the house and he won't leave me alone about it. Did I mention that she told me, and I quote, 'Smell like the others'? Dude, she smelt me and then licked me. Like your little werewolf friends like to do. What is with them, anyway? Do I have a sign on my back that says, 'Come and lick Stiles'?"

Scott was full out laughing now; Stiles sent him his best glare. They stopped just outside of the boys' locker room. The sound of metal clanging and muffled talking reached their ears. Stiles knew that Scott could probably hear every word.

Scott finally caught his breath. "It-it's just a wolf thing," he said, waving him off.

"That explains so much." It really didn't explain anything.

"Look, Stiles," said Scott, "Jackson and I talked to her. I think she's a little…weird—"

"—Weirder than normal—"

"Okay, okay. Maybe there is something off about her. But what can we do to prove it?" Scott asked. "We're not going to shoot her with one of Mr. Argent's wolfsbane bullets, if that's what you're thinking."

Stiles thought for a moment while they made their way into the locker room to change. If he was going to prove that Glory wasn't human, then he needed a plan that involved the least collateral damage and wouldn't result in an awkward situation if it turned out that Glory was human. But Stiles was pretty sure that he was right about Glory. If Stiles had a suspicion, he was usually correct. How could he go about proving she was a supernatural?

"The animal clinic!" Stiles exclaimed.

Scott glanced up from untying his shoes. "What about it?'

"It's lined with Mountain Ash! Supers can't cross it, so if we can get Glory to try and go through the barrier, we figure out if she's human or not. All we have to do is get her to the clinic somehow and make sure Deaton's in on it, too, which shouldn't be too hard—I'm sure he'd be curious to figure out what kind she is." Stiles took a breath. "Simple."

"Yeah, simple," Scott echoed, skeptical. "How do you plan on getting her there?"

"Uh…" Stiles blanched for a moment until he spotted their teammate Danny. "Hey, Danny! Can we borrow your hamster?"

The look on Danny's face told them that, no, he would not let them borrow his hamster.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was a few weeks into the summer holidays and Glory was picking up some things from the grocery store. Her car's air-conditioner had broken and she was stifling; beads of sweat had gathered under the brim of her cap, and her nose had turned a violent red.

Brushing away sticky strands of hair, Glory made a beeline for the frozen foods isle. Her head was stuffed in the freezer when a clammy hand tapped her on the shoulder. A yelp and almost head-butting a packet of peas later, Glory whirled around, hands up as if she was about to pull some kick-ass martial arts moves (which she wasn't, because she had the strength of a slug).

It was Stiles—eyes wide and clutching a chocolate bar. She should have known. At school, she had almost learnt to block out his scent and the others'. Almost.

"Why can't you leave me alone?" It came out like a hiss. She was still mad at him. There was a scar on her pinky finger where two sharp hamster-teeth had sunk in.

Stiles was too busy stammering. He looked confused. "Your hair's changed. And so have your eyes…"

Glory's face contorted a bit. Her appearance was a sore spot. "Dyed the hair and coloured contacts. Are we done?" Glory knew she was being rude, but he kept appearing and stirring up trouble (and, of course, he smelt like them). She just wanted to buy her groceries and go back to Uncle Bobby's.

Before Stiles could respond (he was dithering again), Glory was hit with an overwhelming wave of leather, sandalwood, and something else that made her throat clench.

"Stiles!" Oh god, his voice was better than the chocolate in Stiles' hand. "What is taking you so long? Let's go." He was tall and impossibly muscled. He looked like he could install a cabinet—no, scratch that, he looked like he could build the entire kitchen and carry the fridge up three floors with one arm. His scent was absolutely, toe-curling-ly, mind-boggling delicious. A little moan escape her lips. She slapped a hand over her mouth, covering it up with a pseudo-sneeze, which turned into a cough once the guy with the chiseled face and muscles frowned at her.

"Derek, I was talking to Glory…" said Stiles. He said her name slowly; it bothered her.

Glory scowled after recovering from her fake coughing-sneezing fit. "No, you weren't. You were annoying me. Go away." Her voice was strained and scratchy. Stiles couldn't take the hint (it wasn't even a hint—she kept flat-out telling him to leave her alone). But she wanted this new guy—Derek—to stay. His scent overpowered Stiles' mild medley tenfold. She contemplated sticking her head in the freezer again. It was cotton-ball-thoughts and muddled everything all over again.

"Knew it. Let's go, Stiles. We don't have all day." Derek grasped Stiles by the arm and began hauling him away, despite Stiles' protests. "The pack's waiting for us at the house."

Glory supposed, briefly, that 'pack' was an interesting alternative to 'squad.'

She watched Derek drag Stiles and the strong scent around the aisle. As soon as it faded, she slid down to the floor, leaning against ice-cold glass. She really wished that she had someone to talk to. Terry had gone travelling around Panama with her family (Glory had gotten a postcard of them snorkelling), so her choices were limited. Very limited. Terry was really her only good friend; the only one who knew about Glory's…issues. Glory was confused and scared and she just really wanted her mother.

Wiping away a stray tear that had snuck down her cheek, Glory picked herself up off the ground and ignored the funny look a store employee sent her way.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the midst of a horror movie binge there was a knock on the door. Glory froze, spoon hovering over a tub of ice-cream. Uncle Bobby was out with some of the teachers (who were "celebrating two more months without you little gremlins," as Uncle Bobby had put it), and Glory wasn't expecting anybody. The sun had set an hour ago. She suppressed a shudder, jamming her finger on the pause button and suddenly feeling like the meek protagonist in the movie.

A look through the peephole told her that it was Stiles. Why couldn't he leave her alone? She watched him wait. He kept checking his phone, fidgeting with his red hoodie, and bouncing on the balls of his feet, muttering to himself. Glory only opened the door because of the niggling guilt of letting him just stand outside in the dark.

"What?" He wasn't worth more than one syllable. But then she could smell the other guy on him—leather, sandalwood, and that something else. She quickly decided that he was worth a little bit more than one. "It's late." Three was adequate.

Stiles shuffled his feet, glancing down. He looked pathetically adorable. "I know."

Glory's heart fluttered. "So…?" Surprising both herself and Stiles, she stood back and swung the door wide. Stiles didn't hesitate to barrel through before Glory had the chance to change her mind and kick him to the curb.

"Err…Nice place you got here—" Stiles saw the look on Glory's face and he faltered. "Right. Uh…Hm." He was starting to look like a goldfish. She wanted to tape his mouth shut.

"Spit it out," she growled, crossing her arms, strongly aware that she was dressed in her ratty flannel pyjamas.

"Well," Stiles began, "Scott suggested, since the hamster thing didn't work, that I just talk to you or something. So, here goes nothing…" he scrunched up his face like he was about to get punched. "Werewolvesarereal."

"What?" If he was joking, he really was going to get a nice shiner.

Stiles took a deep breath. "They're real. Werewolves. Same with some supernaturals, not sure how many others. But we're pretty sure something's up with you. Like, supernatural-kind-of-up. You feel me?"

Now it was Glory's turn to imitate a fish. Her hand instinctively went over one of her ears. "What? How do you kn—" She stopped herself before finishing.

"Aha!" Stiles shouted, causing Glory to jump and grab the nearest weapon, which turned out to be a TV remote. "So you admit it?"

Glory raised the remote, but Stiles didn't seem to notice as he stepped toward her. "Admit what? That you're crazy? Definitely."

Stiles was really close. It was suddenly hard to breathe; the air seemed to have gotten thinner and Glory felt hot all over. His eyes darted to her lips. She dropped the remote.

And then realization dawned on her.

He was baiting her.

He wanted her to snap and lose control again. She almost did. Then she remembered.

 _What have you done with my baby—give her back! Give her back!_

The memory of her mother—eyes crazed and panicked, hair a wild mess—lurching for her throat sent Glory back a few paces and into the kitchen counter. The cold stone was grounding, and she clutched tightly to the edge until her knuckles turned white.

Too many emotions were swirling around her and she could barely keep standing. She was fearful that her mother would come bursting through the door again and scream and shout awful things. And then there were the constant urges to get as close as possible to Stiles and the others and now there was the new guy—Derek. She was so confused it hurt. She didn't know what was wrong with her, what made her want things that she shouldn't want. But she wanted him. Any of them would do, really. He was there, though, right in front of her. She could settle for him.

"Stiles." Her words barely a whisper, almost a strangled croak, but Stiles heard. His gaze fluttered down to her mouth again, yet he remained rooted where he was this time. Glory could see his neck—clean of any purple blemishes, with only a light smattering of freckles.

He swallowed hard. "Yeah?"

That was all it took before she lunged for him and they became a tight mess of limbs, pawing at each other, trying to get rid of any empty space. Her mouth was on his—biting, kissing—hot breath mingling. Her senses were overwhelmed with everything Stiles. Spearmint toothpaste, cinnamon, and a slight muskiness from his hoodie. She let out a shuddering moan and Stiles, seemingly encouraged, backed her up against the counter, wrapping one of her legs around his waist and gripping her thigh. His warm body on hers sent flames shooting to her stomach. Stiles' other hand wound its way under her flannel shirt, kneading and moving his thumb in circles that sent her reeling.

She moved her lips to his neck, feeling electric shocks course through her veins and making her feel as if she had taken way too many energy drinks at once. Stiles groaned as she ran her tongue along his jaw, nipping at the soft flesh of his earlobe. They finally broke apart, both gasping for air. Stiles' lips were swollen and there was a bit of blood on his lower lip from where she had bitten too roughly.

"Oh. Okay," Stiles panted as he caught his breath. He suddenly tore his gaze from hers to something by her head. Glory watched him reach toward her in silence. He caressed her cheek for a moment before running his hand up and tucking her hair behind her ear. She didn't stop him.

His mouth twitched into a light smirk. "I knew it." His voice was smug; she jerked her head away from his grasp, breasts still heaving, thoughts swarming. Stiles retracted his hand, flexing it as if it pained him. "How long?"

Her hands found the cool marble again. "Before finals."

Stiles nodded, averting his eyes to where her fingers curled around the counter's edge. "And your hair, your eyes?"

"Real," she murmured. "Came with the ears." There were dark circles under his eyes; his skin was paler.

Glory felt stronger. Awake. Alive. She was itching to get out and move. Suddenly pushing off from the counter, she sidestepped Stiles and to slip on her sneakers.

"What are you doing?" asked Stiles, peering at her as she hopped on one foot, yanking her shoes on the other.

"Getting my shoes," she told him, grabbing the doorknob. "Come on. We're going for a walk."

"What? No—" Stiles lurched and pressed himself up against the door, so that for the second time that night, they were very, very close. Glory found it rather hard to resist the urge to jump his bones again. She was starting to feel as if she was being suffocated; the house was too small, like it was shrinking around her. "I just told you werewolves exist," Stiles continued, "and you're going out for a walk at night?"

"Yes." She wrenched open the door, sending Stiles tumbling forward, limbs akimbo, and into Glory. "Geroff me, Stiles!" His skull knocked against hers, and she was about to tell him off when something stopped her short. A pair of red dots gleamed in the darkness, and she could barely make out a hulking figure standing on Uncle Bobby's doorstep.

Glory screamed. Stiles screamed.

She kept screaming until the figure lunged towards them and into the light with a terrifying growl. "—If you two don't shut up—" It was Derek, from the grocery store. His eyes flashed red.

Glory promptly dumped Stiles onto the floor (he had launched himself into her arms). "You're one of them. How'd you get-I didn't invite you in!" she stuttered. The remote had found its way back into her hand.

"That's only for vampires, Glory," said Stiles as he sat up, rubbing the back of his head. "If they even exist…"

A look of fury crossed Derek's face, and his voice turned low and dangerous, sending shivers down Glory's spine. She wasn't so sure if it was a bad feeling. "You told her?" His eyes turned red. For some reason, it didn't frighten her anymore. More like the exact opposite.

Stiles seemed to whither under Derek's glower. "I did, but I had my reasons!" he stammered. "She's different, like you—"

"She's not like me," Derek snapped. Glory couldn't help her fixation on his ridiculously strong jawline. "What happened to your lip?" Derek suddenly asked, narrowing his eyes at Stiles.

Stiles balked. "Uhh…"

Glory instinctively touched her raw lips. Heat rushed to her face as she recalled what had happened just moments ago. At least this time—this time Stiles had kissed back.

Derek caught the motion, and immediately put two-and-two together. "Really, Stiles? Really?"

"She made the first move…" Stiles mumbled, making Glory roll her eyes.

"Whatever. Doesn't matter," said Derek, returning his focus solely to Stiles. "Have you seen Erica and Boyd?"

Stiles shook his head. "Not since last week."

Derek's face contorted slightly, but when he caught Glory staring, his expression hardened into something unreadable. "Tell me immediately if you do," he told Stiles, half-out the door. "I'll deal with her later." And with a lingering glower, the werewolf (Glory supposed that's what he was) stalked across the porch and right through the brittle grass.

"He's a little dramatic," said Glory.

"He can still hear you," said Stiles.

Glory kicked off her shoes and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She didn't want to go outside anymore. The energy high was gone. It seemed only to come when she kissed Stiles. She wasn't sure why.

It was a long time before either of them said or did anything. It was only when they heard the crunching of tires on gravel that they snapped to attention. The odd feeling that had settled between Glory and Stiles dissipated. Glory hastily readjusted her shirt and smoothed her mussed hair.

She glanced toward Stiles. "You need to leave. My uncle's back," she told him.

"Uncle?" A pair of keys hit the ground with an abrupt clang. Someone cursed. The remaining colour drained from Stiles' face. "Coach!"

"Uh, yeah," Glory snarked, no longer feeling so strange as she pushed him in the direction of the back door. "Now go."

Stiles hesitated and stumbled when Glory grasped his arm to tug him the rest of the way. "Wait-wait! Come by the Beacon Hills Animal Clinic tomorrow after closing, okay?"

"No—" Glory could heard the keys jingling as Uncle Bobby fumbled for the right key in the dark. They didn't have much time. Stiles needed to get out. She wrenched open the back door and shoved him out. The door was almost closed, but Stiles stuck his hand out and kept her from shutting it.

"Come on! Just do it."

Glory let out a frustrated sigh. "Fine."

"Five-thirty. Promise?"

"Yes," she growled. "Now out."

Stiles finally released his hold on the door and Glory slammed it shut. Quickly snatching the remote off the ground and launching herself over the couch, she jammed her finger on the play button and the movie's eerie music resumed. The churning in her stomach refused to stop. Heat rushed to her face as she recalled what had happened just moments ago.

Uncle Bobby trudged in, making a lot of commotion as he bumped into the umbrella holder. Glory pretended to sleep, discarding the remote and letting her head loll to the side.

"Can't see anything. Glory, who's car is—" He turned on a light and all Glory saw was a bright orange-yellow glow through her eyelids. "Oh, never mind," he said. The light flickered off and the television went silent. Footsteps faded and a door clicked.

Glory sighed in relief and opened her eyes. She scrambled to the window in time to see Stiles' Jeep roar to life and rumble away from the curb in front of the house. Touching her raw lips, she scoffed. Werewolves and pointy ears, sudden make-out sessions and animal clinics? Everything was so absurd.

The following morning, Uncle Bobby clamoured around in the kitchen, cooking a breakfast of cheesy omelettes with bits of ham and—much to his disgust—spinach for Glory. The eggs were overcooked and the chunks of ham were tough to chew, but it made Glory warm and content inside. He had tried, at least. The feeling didn't last long when Uncle Bobby brought up her parents.

"So…" he started. "Your dad called. He said your mom's doing better. The therapy sessions are really helping."

Glory froze mid-chew; she forced herself to swallow as her eyes darted to meet her uncle's.

 _Get out—you're not my child!_

"That's good." Glory picked at her omelette. There was no point in asking if she could go back—it was obvious they wouldn't allow it just yet. Not that she wanted to return. She quickly came up with an excuse to escape the stifling awkwardness and hide out in her makeshift bedroom until evening.

It was well after six when she finally worked up the courage to drive to the animal clinic. She figured if Stiles really wanted to know what she was, then he would wait. The sun was low in the sky, but it was still hot and dry out. Glory's car's a/c was still out of order and by the time she reached the clinic, her hair was a windswept rat's nest. Though the state of her nerves were even more tangled and knotted.

The "closed" sign hung in the clinic's window, but when Glory tested the door, it was unlocked.

The animal clinic was small and quaint. The waiting room, which was sectioned off by a half-wall leading to the front desk, had a pile of pet magazines on the coffee table and a couple stained chairs. The pungent scent of disinfectant and lingering odour of dogs and cats hit her nose. Muffled voices floated from the next room.

"Hello?" she called, and then there was a brief silence.

A stout, bald man in a lab coat appeared through a door. "I'm sorry, but we are closed—" he didn't get the chance to finish, for Stiles suddenly appeared behind him.

"No, no, it's okay, Deaton—it's Glory!" he exclaimed. Glory felt her cheeks grow hot when she caught sight of his neck and scabbed lip.

The veterinarian, Dr. Deaton, nodded. "We are glad that you made it," he said. "Shall we get started?"

Glory scowled. "Started?"

Dr. Deaton lifted an eyebrow at Stiles. "You didn't explain it to her?" he asked.

Stiles shifted nervously, picking at his hoodie's drawstring. "Um, I didn't really have the chance…"

The vet didn't seem satisfied with that answer, but he focused his attention back onto Glory, who was on the verge of bolting out of the clinic. "We need to narrow down the list," he told. Whatever list he was talking about, she didn't know. "If you'll come with us to the exam room—"

Glory expected him to open the gate, yet he stood there, a few paces away. Stiles leaned past him to unlatch it, but Dr. Deaton's hand darted out and halted Stiles' arm. "No—this is the first test."

Stiles looked as confused as Glory felt. "What? How is this supposed to determine what she is? We've already established that she's not really human," he said. "The ears are a bit of a giveaway."

Glory self-consciously patted down the hair above the sharp points trying to peek through her brown locks.

Dr. Deaton placed a hand on Stiles' shoulder, forcing him backward. "Trust me, Stiles," he told the boy before switching his attention to Glory. "Open it," he jerked his head to the gate.

Slowly, like she was approaching a dog and afraid to get bit, Glory unfastened the catch and then watched Stiles' reaction. Dr. Deaton betrayed nothing, but Stiles' jaw dropped and he only appeared more confused. She didn't understand what was so significant about the gate.

"I don't get it—"

Deaton ignored Stiles. He knew something they didn't. "All right, come with me," he said. Glory and Stiles exchanged looks. Unease gripped Glory.

They followed him into the examination room and Dr. Deaton motioned for her to sit on the operating table. The metal was freezing and goosebumps rose on her bare legs. She had never liked hospitals or clinics.

With her permission, Dr. Deaton inspected her ears, running gloved hands over the tips and poking and prodding. He checked her eyes next and then her hair, asking questions the whole time, while Stiles hovered so much that Dr. Deaton ordered him to park it in a chair or else he would be the one getting fixed and not the collie in the next room. Stiles stayed back after that, but his incessant fidgeting made Glory want to smack him. Or jump his bones. Either was fine.

Dr. Deaton leaned against the counter across from Glory, pulling off the blue surgical gloves with a satisfying snap. It was some time before he spoke, and neither Glory nor Stiles wanted to interrupt his thoughtful silence. A dog barked and the clock chimed seven. The anticipating was killing her. It was like she was waiting to hear the results of a test for a disease.

"Well?" It came out harsher than she intended.

Dr. Deaton met her hard gaze, though she knew her eyes betrayed the stark fear striking her heart with every beat. "Your mother was admitted to Eichen House, was she not?"

 _What have you done with my baby? Give her back! Give her back!_

She jutted out her chin. "What of it?"

He perused a file that he had plucked from the counter; each turned page sounded like nails on a chalkboard to Glory. "The police report says she hurt you?"

Glory bristled. "How did you get that report?" she demanded.

"Sorry," Stiles muttered, staring at his shoes.

She was getting irritated—a broiling, viscous choler seeping out. "Tell me! Tell me what's wrong with me!" She was shouting now. Stiles was out of his seat in an instant. It took her a moment, but she realized that she too was no longer sitting.

Dr. Deaton remained unruffled, for he continued speaking in that unnaturally calm, collected way of his. "As Stiles may have told you, there are beings that are...different." He spoked as if giving an university lecture. "There are many types of supernaturals, some that we know of and some that might or might not exist...

"You have, of course, heard of werewolves. They're the most common supernatural in Beacon Hills, as far as we know. But, there are others. Not just in Beacon Hills. They live amongst us. It is part of who they are."

"What's this got to do with me?" Glory asked, growing confused. Stiles had a similar expression of uncertainty.

Dr. Deaton sighed. "My point is Glory, is that there is nothing wrong with you."

Glory was tired, suddenly. She just wanted to _know_. "Just-just tell me what I am, then," she said, her voice taking on an almost pleading tone. The veterinarian was dragging it out. She wanted the truth like one would rip off a bandaid.

Setting down the police report, Dr. Deaton folded his arms and stared at her, as if he was playing a game of chess and he was seeing the outcomes of different phrases.

"There is a type of creature, much smaller than you and I," he began, but Glory interrupted him. She was finding it hard to breathe.

" _What am I?_ "

Then Deaton said the word and reality came crashing down.

"A changeling."

Blood muffled her hearing, and even though the others were talking, they were drowned out by the pulsing, the thudding. She jammed the palms of her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the world that she thought she knew.

But it wasn't her world anymore. It was a lie. She knew the myths. The Fae snatching children and replacing them with their own. She wasn't her mother's daughter. No one wanted her. She was a parasite in her own family, except they weren't hers at all.

Suddenly Stiles was in front of her, saying things that were meant to be reassuring but weren't. He had his hands running over her arms, and any other time, she thought, it might have been comforting. She swatted his hands away, and bolted for the door. They called after her, yet she couldn't hear their words.

Despite the fading daylight, the air was still thick and the sun shone brightly in her eyes. She jumped in her car and flicked down the visor. It was hot, but anything was better than that sterile cage with that stupid vet and stupid Stiles.

Her foot was hovering on the gas pedal when Stiles shot out of the clinic. "Wait!" He shouted. "D-don't—" He latched onto the car's window frame, nearly shoving his whole torso into the passenger's seat.

Her heart was pounding in her ears. She needed to leave, to get away from everything. "Why can't you leave me alone?" She cried out. Tears were starting to gather on her lashes and in the corners of her eyes, and everything went blurry.

"Because I—" he faltered and seemed to change his mind. "I just-come on, Glory," he pleaded. "Come back inside. It's not as bad as you think—"

"Not as bad!" Glory erupted and all her problems came seeping over in a hot molten mess of tears and snot. "Don't you get it?! No one wants me, Stiles! Not my birth parents—not even my mother or my dad, and Uncle Bobby doesn't really care to have me around. He hasn't even tried cleaning out the guest room."

And then there was Cam. Cam, who had been there for her for so long, who had dropped her like she was nothing to him. But she couldn't bring herself to mention him, so she kept pouring out her dirty secrets one by one to keep from talking about him.

She sobered up a little, her rant slowing and slurring. "Do you know what's worse about all this, Stiles?" She didn't wait for an answer. Her voice wavering, she whispered, "my mother knew. She knew I wasn't hers. She knew that I wasn't right." She took a shaky breath.

It wasn't fair. Glory knew, of course, that life was never fair. But for once, she wanted someone to care for her and love her because they wanted to and not because circumstances called for it. She didn't want to be someone's replacement anymore.

And then, too quietly that she almost missed it, Stiles said,

"...I-I want you."

Glory choked. With a glance in his direction, she saw the most earnest expression in his eyes. She'd never seen that sort of look on anybody, at least not directed at her, and it was a shocking, unsettling thing. And yet, while it left her short of breath and dizzy, it warmed her toes and her fingers.

Stiles was no longer hanging on the car window. His arms had fallen to his sides and he seemed sort of defeated. As much as she wanted to lurch over the passenger's seat and drag him into the car and kiss him senseless, something kept her physically locked into place. Perhaps it was the memory of the heavy circles under his eyes, how he seemed so utterly drained the other night in Uncle Bobby's kitchen, that made her do what she did next. Or, perhaps it was just second nature, now, to run.

Which is what she did.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A/N: And there you have it. Glory is: a changeling!

I'm probably going to add a couple more chapters to this ficlet. I've been enjoying writing the oddity that is Glory. I hope to update within the next couple months, as I'm no longer working and just have school. Cheers!


	3. Part 3

Growing up, Glory had never liked going to the beach. The air was too salty, and the sand always stuck in her hair. But now, as she sat at the top of a dune, Glory changed her mind. She quite liked it.

She burrowed her feet into the cool sand and drew swirling designs with the tips of her fingers. The rolling waves lulled her into a daze, her swollen eyes half-closed. When the sun peeked above the horizon, she left and made the long drive back to town.

By the time she reached the _Welcome to Beacon Hills_ sign, Glory's stomach was growling. She stopped at a gritty diner at the edge of town that looked like it hadn't been renovated since the nineties, with a dirty, faded green awning and hard plastic booths. Several neon letters of the sign reading _DINER_ were burnt out, and the rest were flickering and making a high-pitched buzzing noise. There were two other cars in the small lot and a semi-truck parked around back.

Upon entering and setting off a bell, an older waitress greeted her with a smile and a friendly, "sit wherever, dear." She looked in her late forties, with greying blonde hair in a ponytail and kind blue eyes with little crow's feet in the outer corners. A small army of pink and green gel pens sat tucked away in her small apron and a red one hid behind her ear.

Glory slid into the cleanest booth she could find away from the other patrons: a trucker to whom the waitress was tending with a pot of dark coffee, and an old man with a beard so long he could probably tuck it into his belt. He was reading a newspaper and absently stirring his scrambled eggs into a pile of mush. The diner had a row of booths along the walls by the front and one side of the diner, while a long counter ran the length of the place. A window behind the counter allowed Glory to catch a peek at the cook, a heavyset man with dark locks pulled back into the kind of hairnets that the lunch ladies at school wear.

The waitress finished pouring coffee for the grizzly trucker, who resembled more bear than human, and then made her way over to where Glory was. Glory was pretty sure she looked awful; her eyes were sore, and she was just overcoming an achy head from crying so much.

"What can I get you to drink, honey?" asked the waitress as she slid a plastic menu onto the table. Her gentle tone was like a warm blanket on a cold winter's day.

Glory gave the woman a small, weary smile. "Coffee, please."

"Sure thing."

Glory gave the menu a quick once-over and ordered some waffles with lots of chocolate syrup when the waitress returned with her cup of coffee. Glory dumped in several packets of sugar and cream until the coffee was almost gold.

It was when she was finally digging into her waffles, soggy with syrup, that an unsettling feeling washed over her, like she was being watched. A quick glance around the diner showed that no one was paying her any mind: the trucker and old man were both busying themselves over their breakfasts and coffee, the waitress was writing on her notepad with a green gel pen, and the cook was still clanking around in the kitchen. Glory reluctantly resumed eating, but she still couldn't shake the feeling that someone or some _thing_ was watching her.

Suddenly, the door banged open, the little bell above violently clanking. Glory jumped a mile high, knocking her knees against the table. She swiveled in her seat to get a look at who just made such an entrance, and she noticed the other diners peering over their shoulders, too. She smelt him before she even laid eyes on him: sandalwood, leather, and a distinct smell of dirt, like he'd been rolling around in it like a dog. She caught sight of his menacing expression and dark eyes, and immediately she shrunk in on herself, trying to be as small as possible in the hard-plastic booth.

She was in deep shit.

Derek stalked toward her table and sat down across from her without so much of a " _hello_ ," or " _fine morning, isn't it?_ ". She opened her mouth to say as much, but Derek silenced her with a glare, eyes flickering between red and a greenish-yellow. Her mouth snapped shut on its own accord.

"You've caused us a lot of trouble," he growled, his eyes glowing red for several long beats. Glory's hand twitched, and she was briefly reminded of their encounter in the grocery store and at her house. She almost slammed her head down on the table to keep herself from _leaping across it_. Instead, she wrung her hands on her lap, nervously pulling and bending at her fingers.

Derek continued speaking in a low voice. "Your uncle has us scouring the hills looking for you."

Glory held in a snort, briefly breaking from her internal struggle. "So, he actually noticed I was gone this time?"

Derek ignored her comment, even though she knew he heard it with his super-wolf hearing. Instead, he leaned back and flagged down the waitress, who had been eyeing them with apprehension from the register. He ordered a coffee and pancakes, and actually _smiled_ at the woman. Glory had never seen him smile, whether it was genuine or just politeness. It was unnerving, seeing his white teeth bared in a friendly manner, especially when she knew he could rip out her throat with them.

When he finished his order, Derek turned back to Glory and his smile dropped. "Here is what's going to happen," he said. "You are going back to your uncle's house and you will stop causing trouble. The rest of us have enough to deal with on our hands without your tantrums. You will go back and stay out of our way. You will keep away from the others and pretend you are a normal, oblivious human teenager. Or else –"

Derek paused when the waitress dropped off his coffee. Glory took that moment to shove her shaking hands between her knees. Should she run? Should she stay and listen to his threats? Glory realized what he was asking of her. She couldn't do it. There was no way she could pretend none of this was happening. How could she? It was insane.

Supernatural creatures existed.

And she was one of them.

For years, she had shoved down that feeling that something wasn't quite right, that _she_ wasn't quite right. It all made sense now. She will be damned if she let some _werewolf_ with anger issues control her. She was not going to let him tell her what to do.

" _Like hell I will_."

The werewolf's eyes flashed blood-red. "What?" he growled. His features were cold and expressionless, but his eyes showed how furious he was.

Glory kept her voice low but firm. "Why should I listen to you? I don't know you and you definitely can't tell me what to do," she told him. She was clenching her fists so tightly they were white. "I-I won't be bullied into denying what I am."

Derek scowled. "Bullied? This is for your own good."

"How?" Glory asked. "Stiles is stupidly normal, but he knows. That's not fair."

"Stiles is Scott's friend. He's an exception."

"Well, I'm Stiles' –" she stopped in her tracks.

What was she to Stiles? _I want you_. She remembered the look in his eyes, how sincere and vulnerable he had been. How could he want her? Even her own birth parents didn't want her. They _traded_ her for something better. Was there something Stiles saw in her that she couldn't see herself?

She didn't have time to argue further, for a car pulled into the diner's parking lot. It was the sheriff's car.

Glory stiffened. She shot Derek an accusing look. "How could you?" She hadn't seen him use his phone. Maybe he had used it before he came into the diner. It's not like she had run away for good, yet it felt like a betrayal. Like she had been tricked. Derek wasn't her friend. He had every reason to make the call. But it made her _furious_.

Derek reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, dropped several bills on the table. He gave her a smirk. "It's on me. Enjoy your ride." He stood and made to leave. Before he could get past Glory, she snatched his wrist, twisting it for good measure.

"Congratulations," she hissed. "You've ticked off the wrong person."

Derek regarded her with a blasé, belittling gaze, as if she was a silly child. "I'm sure I have," he replied, trying to shake her grip.

A spark of indignation flared. Derek's wrist grew hot under her hand; she could feel his pulse. She could feel _power_. She liked it.

It came faster this time, the energy. It flooded quickly, faster than it had with Stiles. It burned through her arm and filled her whole body, right down to her toes and the tips of her ears, which were surely pointed under her brown hair. The energy was like a high, and she kept wanting _more_.

Derek's shoulders sagged, and he grabbed the back of her booth with his free hand to steady himself. Glory released his wrist. The flow of heat stopped, but she could still sense the energy swirling in her veins, waiting to be spent.

Derek's breathing was laboured. "What did you do to me? What are you?" He panted.

Glory was surprised Dr. Deaton hadn't told him, or maybe there wasn't time. She put on her best Cheshire grin and flexed her fingers, because she had finally realized what she could do. She knew just what kind of power she could wield. Or rather, take.

"Ever wonder why Stiles was always so tired after seeing me? It was like that with my old friend, Cam, too…" She took a bite of her waffles, wriggling a little in her seat from the rush of energy.

"What are you?" Derek snarled again, leaning in close to her. Glory sniffed. He really did smell wonderful.

She finished chewing and swallowed. She wasn't afraid of him anymore, nor of herself. She wasn't afraid of _anybody_.

"I'm a changeling," she replied. "I take from people. Like I did with you. It's just what I do." She kind of liked this evasiveness, dangling her knowledge above the werewolf's head, so to speak.

"What did you take from me?"

Glory suddenly felt nails digging into the back of her neck. They had not yet broken the skin, but Glory realized her little power trip was over. She had tried to toy with someone who could snap her head clean off without breaking a sweat.

"Well, I don't know how to give it back!" she snapped.

Derek leaned in closer. The nails twitched. "What. Did. You. _Take_?"

His strength. His power. His will to live.

 _Where is my child? What have you done with her?_

"Everything."

Everything that was taken from her.

 _Give her back! Give her back!_

"Derek, that's enough," the stern voice of Sheriff Stilinski broke through.

Derek released his hold on Glory's neck and straightened up. "Sheriff," he said with a nod before brushing past him and bursting out of the diner. The door shuddered as it slammed behind him. Glory turned and saw that the waitress and the diners were watching them.

Sheriff Stilinski approached her table. "Glory, I need you to come with me," he told her.

Glory heaved a sigh. She was in _so_ much trouble.

 **XXxxXXxxXX**

The ride to the station was mostly quiet. Sheriff Stilinski let Glory ride in the passenger seat instead of in the back of the car. There were a couple wrappers from Jimmy John's and a couple of pop cans littering the foot of the seat. The car smelt like a fast food joint mixed with mint from the car air freshener.

"Sorry about the mess," said the sheriff. "Haven't had time to clean."

Glory didn't say anything.

They came up to a red light. "So," Sheriff Stilinski tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. "What was going on back there?"

"Noth-" Glory decided it was better to tell the truth. "We were having a disagreement." Most of the truth.

"What was it about?"

Glory crossed her arms and huffed. "He was trying to tell me what to do."

The sheriff chuckled. "Yeah, I don't like it when people tell me what to do, either."

There was a long, pregnant pause before he spoke again (because Glory was definitely not going to initiate conversation). "So… are you and, uh…" He hesitated, then he seemed to gather his thoughts. "Are you and my son… _dating_?" He asked.

Glory choked on her spit. "Ex-excuse me?"

"I know it's a weird thing to ask, but I'm his dad and he seems to really like you, so I like to know these things. Because I'm his dad," Sheriff Stilinski rambled. "And, well. Hm. I, uh, saw the… Well, I saw the, erm – _bruises_ on his neck…" He trailed off.

Glory was _mortified_.

Heat rushed to her face and she felt like she was going to burst into flames, she was so embarrassed.

Glory finally managed to form coherent words again. "It's complicated?" She offered.

The sheriff nodded. "I'll accept that answer," he said. "I'm just glad he's got something, sorry, some _one_ to distract him from meddling in police affairs. He seems a lot happier lately, too. Ever since his mom, well…"

Frowning, Glory glanced over to the sheriff, who had a sad, distant look on his face. Glory knew that Stiles' mom had gotten sick and died when Stiles was young. She never knew the specifics of Mrs. Stilinski's death.

"Anyway, I'm glad he has you," Sheriff Stilinski affirmed. "Just… be good to him, okay?"

The last part startled Glory and without thinking, she replied, "I will."

Sheriff Stilinski dropped Glory off at Uncle Bobby's, where she got an earful and a months' worth of grounding. Uncle Bobby tried to throw in dish-duty, but Glory already did the dishes most of the time, so he made her house arrest for two months, " _for the snark_." Glory supposed she deserved it.

While she wasn't allowed to leave the house, Glory considered the porch and lawn part of the house. She was sitting outside on the house's porch steps to avoid one of Uncle Bobby's angry tirades – which were somewhat funny, especially when he worked himself up so much his face turned red and he started sputtering nonsense.

She was playing with a slimy snail, poking it with a stick, when Stiles' Jeep rattled onto the street and stopped by the curb in front of Uncle Bobby's house. The car door slammed, and Glory watched Stiles make his way up the path. He walked right up to the porch and stood a few feet away from Glory.

"Hi," he said, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. She wondered how he could be wearing that silly red hoodie of his in the summer heat. She could smell that odd medley of the others on him from a mile away.

"Hey." Glory had to squint at him through the bright afternoon sun, which was behind him.

He kicked at the stone pathway for a few moments, seeming to gather up the courage to speak. "I'm glad you're okay," he settled on saying. "I, uh, I was worried."

Glory gave him a small smile. "Yeah, your dad told me."

Stiles' eyes bulged. "He _what_?"

Shrugging, Glory replied with a teasing tone, "It was a long drive from the diner."

Stiles pulled at his hair. "Oh my god – I can't believe him. What did he say? What did he tell you? Please tell me it wasn't anything bad or embarrassing – he didn't tell you about the bath incident, right? Or the time I –" he abruptly cut himself off when he caught Glory giggling. "What is it?" He asked.

Glory shrugged again. "He thinks we're dating."

"Aren't we?"

Glory almost got whiplash with how quickly she looked up from the snail. " _No_ –"

Stiles cut her off. "Iknowthisisgoingtosoundcrazybutcanwebe?"

Glory rolled her eyes. "English, Stiles," she told him, standing up and stretching.

"Can we?"

"Can we what?"

It was Stiles' turn to roll his eyes, except he rolled most of his torso as well. "You're just as dense as – never mind."

 _Oh_.

"I'll think about it."

Stiles' whole face lit up. "Really?"

Glory glanced at him sharply. "Don't make me regret it," she warned him half-heartedly. She couldn't really be mean to those sweet round eyes.

Stiles just stood there, grinning stupidly.

Before Glory could stop herself, she closed the distance between the two of them and hugged him. Stiles initially stiffened in surprise, but he soon wound his arms around her and squeezed tightly.

When they broke apart, he asked, "What was that for?"

Glory looked down at her feet, suddenly very shy. "For wanting me, I guess."

She found herself drawn back into another, bone-crushing hug. This time, they stayed like that until Uncle Bobby hollered at them from the second-floor window and nearly hit Stiles with a lamp.

 **XXxxXXxxXX**

Several weeks later, with special permission from Uncle Bobby, Glory stood at the doorstep of her house, nervousness curdling in her stomach. Nothing had changed: the paint was chipped above the doorknob, the welcome mat still welcoming as ever, and a lopsided, leafy plant was still perched atop the porch swing. A deep sense of nostalgia and longing struck through, making her raise her fist and knock. The third thump seemed to echo for ages before the curtains drew aside and her father's worn face peeked through. The door opened moments later.

It looked like someone had taken a knife to her father's face and carved out lines that deepened whenever he frowned. "You're not supposed to –"

" _Please_ ," Glory interrupted him. "I-I need to see her."

"It's not a good idea," said Mr. Finstock. His eyes searched hers, and then wandered to her hair. "You look different. She won't…" he didn't even bother finishing. Glory knew what he meant. There was a niggling behind her heart that told her he was right. She didn't want to give in. Not yet.

"Please, dad, I've got to try," she pleaded. He let her in. A queer feeling settled in her body. The house was the same. Clean. Familiar. But it didn't feel like home anymore.

Mrs. Finstock was enjoying a cup of tea on the back porch. It was considerably cooler in the shade. Glory eyed her mother's pale linen clothes; they reminded her of hospital scrubs.

"Hi, mom."

There was the slightest tilt of her head, but her mother made no other move to acknowledge Glory as she sipped her tea. The cicadas were buzzing loudly in the heat, and the neighbour's kids' shrieks floated over as they played a game of tag. Glory stood awkwardly, feeling like a guest in her own house and waiting to be offered a seat. Except the hostess did not want to take up the task. She rubbed her arm.

At the beach, she had thought of countless things to say, but it all was useless now, she realized. There was nothing she could do to take back the years and do them over. Her mother especially would never change.

Unclenching her jaw and forcing her eyes to her mother's teacup (she couldn't bring herself to meet those hollow eyes yet), she mustered up the courage to speak.

"I know now that –" She faltered.

 _What have you done with my baby? Give her back!_

She tried again, hands quaking. "You were right," she finally said. "I…" It suddenly struck her that she should never have come. She stepped a few paces toward the door, resting her fingers on the rusted handle.

"But I only wish you could have loved me despite it all."

She moved to leave, casting a final glance at Mrs. Finstock; the teacup was frozen at her lips.

Glory took a step inside the house and gently shut the door behind her, the motion evoking a sense of finality. Mr. Finstock was waiting in the living room, and he pulled her into an embrace as soon as he saw her.

"She'll get better," he reassured her, "one day."

Glory knew that would never happen – he had been saying that for years. They were empty words.

She took a sharp breath and decided to tell her father her plans before she lost the courage to do so. It was her choice this time, yet it hurt all the same.

"I called Trudy. She has a spare…" she started, though she struggled to find the right words. How could she tell her own father that she wanted to leave?

Mr. Finstock frowned briefly before understanding dawned in his eyes. "Are you sure?" He asked. Glory nodded. "I will arrange things with the school," he said slowly, after some hesitation.

Glory gave him a watery smile; she quickly wiped her eyes. She glanced toward the front door. "I should get going."

She hugged him once more and headed out. Like with her mother, spared a look over her shoulder and saw that her father had lowered himself into an armchair, one hand resting under his chin and elbow on the armrest.

The heavy door fell shut behind her. The feelings of homesickness that had so violently arrested her only a short time prior had thawed. She hadn't noticed it before: the reddish-brown specks on the welcome mat, the chipped paint looking like scratches from a key, the cigarette butts and bottle caps dotting the soil of the leafy porch plant.

Her resolve strengthened with each step away from the house. As she reached her car, a funny feeling made her glance back at the house.

She couldn't recall an instance where her father had told her he loved her.

And oddly, it did not matter.

 **XXxxXXxxXX**

"How did it go?" asked Stiles as soon as Glory sat down in front of him. They were meeting in a bustling coffee shop near Uncle Bobby's house (who seemed to have trouble actually implementing Glory's grounding). Two coffee cups were on the small round table, next to an open notebook that looked as if a toddler had gotten ahold of it and attacked it with a pen.

Stiles slid one of the cups across the table and Glory took it gratefully. Her hands were still shaking, so she needed something to keep them busy.

Glory shrugged. "It was… It was what I expected, I guess," she said.

"It'll be okay." Stiles offered her a sympathetic smile. Glory looked down at her coffee.

He was so sweet that it made Glory's decision hurt even more. She had not yet told him she was going away; she had just made up her mind the day before and needed time to build up the courage to tell Stiles. That was why she wanted to meet him for coffee, so she could break the news gently. They weren't officially together or anything – neither of them had broached the subject, and they were still trying to figure out how to act around the other – so it was not as if she was breaking up with him. But Glory knew Stiles would be heartbroken.

"Excited for school to start?" asked Stiles.

"Not really," Glory replied. She cleared her throat and started to speak before she could lose her nerve, "Listen Stiles, I –"

Stiles' cell phone beeped, abruptly cutting her off. "Sorry," said Stiles as he checked the message. His eyes widened. "Uh, it's Scott. Is it cool if I get this?" he asked. Glory sighed and made a shooing motion with her hand.

"Okay, I'll be right back," Stiles assured her. "Don't move."

Glory sipped her coffee while she waited. Through the shop's front window, Stiles seemed to be arguing with Scott, gesticulating so wildly he knocked the hat off an old lady. Glory sniggered as she watched him dither apologies until the old lady whacked him with her pursed and walked off.

Stiles soon came back into the shop in a whirlwind of wayward limbs, skidding to a halt in front of their table.

"I'm so sorry, but Scott needs my help with, ah, his furry problem," he said. "Can we meet up tomorrow morning and talk? I can pick you up!"

"Yeah, sure," Glory nodded.

Stiles breathed a sigh of relief, as if he had been worried she would be furious. "Great! I'll text you." He hesitated for a moment before he suddenly lurched forward and kissed her right on the mouth. Glory made an indignant noise, and Stiles quickly pulled away, grinning.

"Bye!" he beamed and went traipsing out the door.

Glory was too flabbergasted to say anything in return.

She shouldn't have been so surprised, because Stiles did that sort of thing a lot. He liked to ambush her with affection, randomly, and occasionally kiss the snot out of her. She was going to miss that about him, and everything else, of course.

Glory finished up her coffee and then gathered her things. The sun was getting low in the sky. She had walked, so she wanted to get home before dark.

Her route took her through a quiet part of town with houses spaced quite far apart, and by the forest. At night, the forest looked shadowy and menacing, but with the late afternoon sun filtering through the branches, it looked warm and inviting. Instead of heading straight back to Uncle Bobby's, Glory veered off the sidewalk and into the woods.

Something was drawing her through the forest. Perhaps it was because it seemed so peaceful, a welcome respite from all the stress. While a breeze rustled the canopy overhead, sounding much like rainfall, and dead leaves and sticks crunched underfoot, the forest was otherwise silent. Glory could not hear the cicadas buzzing in the unbearable heat, nor did she hear any birds singing to each other. It was as if there were no living creatures at all, as if they had suddenly vanished or fled.

She was only walking for a few minutes when the sun dipped low, and the shadows grew longer. The air cooled considerably, but not as much to give Glory goosebumps.

A firefly appeared in her path, a flickering yellow light that disappeared in one place and reappeared a few paces farther down. Gradually, more blinking little orbs emerged, and some were even blue. But these blue fireflies were different; they held a steady glow and fluttered at a much quicker pace. Soon, few of the yellow fireflies remained as the blue ones outnumbered them.

Glory watched with marked curiosity as the blue fireflies cast a ghostlike glow on the forest floor, their tiny shadows dancing across the thick tree trunks. She kept on, the lights guiding her away from gnarled roots and loose stones, and deeper into the forest. After what felt like only a short time, Glory came upon a small lake. The water rippled in the moonlight, shimmering, soothing, alluring while large willows swayed around the banks, long tendrils of leaves caressing the surface of the lake.

The fireflies glided over the lake, covering the water in thousands of glittering blue diamonds. Their movements became erratic and energetic as more pooled into the clearing. They swooped near Glory, like small gusts of wind, almost begging her to join them.

Impulsively, Glory took off her shoes and socks and kicked them off to the side. She plodded down to the river's edge, climbing over a fallen tree as she did so, and dipped her toes into the water. It was unexpectedly warm, and a sense of peacefulness swelled in her chest. She pushed her whole foot through the surface, and then the other, and without a second thought, the blue lights dancing all around her, she wadded deeper into the water.

A firefly flew close to her face, so Glory held out her hand, palm facing the sky, and grinned unreservedly when the creature landed on her the tips of her fingers.

"Hello," she said to the glowing orb. The water was to her waist now.

The firefly stayed for a moment before taking to the air once more. However, it remained close to her outstretched fingers, just out of reach, as if to beckon her forward.

She obeyed.

And she never looked back.

 **XXxxXXxxXX**

It was an unusually warm autumn evening as Scott and Stiles were walking to Scott's house. The hot sun hung low in the sky and a dry breeze kept up a steady pace. The cicadas were buzzing deafeningly in the heat and every now and then a car would roar past them in a cloud of dust and fumes. Stiles was describing to Scott the latest conspiracy theory he had about the new administrative assistant at school when he abruptly stopped in his tracks.

It took Scott, who had been half-listening, a moment to realize Stiles was several feet back, staring at a wooden telephone pole. The pole was plastered with rusted staples and bits of torn papers of old advertisements and lost and found signs. It was one poster that had caught Stiles' eye. The poster was crinkled and torn, but still legible.

 _MISSING_ , it read, _GLORY_ _FINSTOCK_.

And there was a picture of her in black and white. It was an old school photo, before she changed so much. Her hair was light, and Stiles guessed her eyes were still blue at the time the picture was taken. The family's contact information was posted below, with the phone number printed several times so that passersby could rip it off. No one had taken the numbers.

"Are you okay?" asked Scott. He knew Glory was a sensitive spot for Stiles.

Stiles didn't respond for a long while as he stared at the picture of Glory. A torrent of thoughts churned in his mind and he battled the rising emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. Glory had disappeared months ago, and yet every time he thought of her, which was becoming less and less as time wore on, it was as if he was feeling all the things he had the day she vanished, all over again.

"Yeah," he finally said. "I just hope she is, too."

When Scott's back was turned, Stiles ripped a copy of the number from the poster and slipped it into his pocket – just in case.

 **XXxxXXxxXX**

– And there we have it. A long time running (two years!), but finally wrapped up. I might continue this one day, but I'd like to tend to some other neglected fics as well. I hadn't intended this to be a lengthy fic, though I've left it in a way that I could come back and continue it. Thank you guys for sticking around 'till the end :)

Cheers,  
ehcorns


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